The Possibility of Sanity
by Kalika Barlow
Summary: A series of oneshots devoted to Saw pairings for the 100 Oneshot Challenge of my own design. Pairings inside. Includes characters from Saw I, II, III, IV, V and VI
1. Pain

**Pain**

* * *

_"Pain,  
Without love,  
Pain,  
I can't get enough,  
Pain  
I like it rough,  
Cause, I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all_

* * *

Mark Hoffman.

Not exactly the most remarkable of names. And yet he himself was. At least, that was what the deep-set loathing and admiration in her mind told her.

Remarkable. Unique. Beautiful.

And he was beautiful.

To anyone else, they could have been siblings, brother and sister, fighting the ways of the world any way they could. Be it with knives, guns or twisted machinery, they would fight.

For him. For Jigsaw. For John Kramer.

He was her father, her mother, and her whole world. To be without him, was to be cast down into the dark abyss, into nothing.

Amanda had been a part of that endless nothing for most of her life. As a child, she had been victim to cruel bullying at the hands of her schoolmates and her 'parents'.

At age ten, she discovered the release that came from spilling her own blood. She relished the edge of the blade against her forearm, the rush of adrenaline as her life's essence stained the shining steel of the razor. It became her escape, her own little world that came with the blood shed.

Even now, as she slices into her inner thigh, tears spring to her eyes.

She wished she didn't have to do this. She wished she didn't have to keep feeling this way. But it was the _only _way.

_You need to distance yourself from your emotions, or they will rule you, Amanda._

His words. John's words. They made sense and yet Amanda couldn't find it within herself to take them to heart. Emotions were what separated them from the animals, both metaphorically and literally.

She hissed in pain as a particularly deep cut seared with white-hot agony, setting her nerves on fire.

"Dammit!"

Blood seeped out from between her fingers, streaking her hands with red. Bundling up the washcloth at her side, she pressed it to her thigh, brows furrowed in concentration.

It hurt. Why did it hurt? It _never _hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried desperately to curb the pain that was shooting up her leg and settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. Her vision began to darken.

_God…dammit._

A wet cloth against her forehead brought Amanda back round fairly quickly.

Immediately alert, she tried to pull away from the other person.

"Easy. You've lost quite a bit of blood"

His voice in her ear quieted her in a heartbeat.

"Hoff…man…?"

"Don't try to talk," he murmured soothingly, "you're weak as it is."

His quiet, gentle words spurred on her resentment of him.

"Fuck…you," she gasped, trying desperately to clear her vision. All she could see was the fuzzy outline of the man she so despised.

The man she was falling for.

Hoffman chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sure you would. Now, hold still."

His hand went to her thigh and she jerked, her eyes going wide.

"Get the…fuck off me…!"

"Calm down, Amanda, there's blood fucking everywhere!"

"Get your hands _off me_, you fucking--!" she tried to squirm away and fell off the mattress.

"FUCK!"

"For God's sake, stop acting like a child," he snapped, standing up and crouching next to her, a frown marring his face.

Amanda ignored him and rolled onto her side, gasping out in pain as the scars on her thigh stretched and began to bleed again.

"Shit—"

"For fuck's sake, hold still."

Amanda reined in a shriek as Hoffman wrapped an arm under her knees and lifted her off the ground.

"Arm around my shoulders, Amanda," he said sharply. She obeyed, if only to steady herself a little more. Her nostrils twitched as she caught the scent of his cologne.

_God, he smelled good._

She pushed the thought defiantly out of her head as he sat her on the nearest bench top, her legs dangling over the side. She resisted the urge to swear as she realized how much she looked like a naughty little kid in this position.

Scowling, she tried to close her legs.

"Don't close them, you'll only make it worse," he said, dabbing –what appeared to be– disinfectant onto a hand towel. Her nose scrunched up as the pungent odour assaulted her nostrils.

Hoffman turned back to her, cloth in hand, an apologetic look on his face.

"This is going to _really _fucking hurt, so…uh, try and keep the vocals low, okay?"

Amanda sent him a scathing look.

"Fuck y—AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"What did I say about the vocals?"

"FUCK YOU, HOFFMAN!"

He winced, more at the volume of her voice as apposed to the vulgarity and moved the sodden rag away from her bleeding thigh.

"I did warn you," he said, smiling petulantly.

"Oh my fucking _God, _I hope you_ fucking die!"_

"If I had a dollar everytime someone said that to me—_"_

"Oh, fuck off," she snarled, her fingers curling into a fist at her side.

He sighed exasperatedly and held up the cloth again.

"A little quiet while I save your life?"

Amanda crossed her arms and glowered at him but refrained from hurling any more insults his way.

As gently as he could, he touched the cloth to the open wound on her left leg. Amanda bit her tongue to hold in the gasp of pain that threatened to escape her.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Hoffman commented, sounding annoyed, keeping his eyes trained on the cut.

"I wasn't fucking thinking, alright?" she muttered irritably, determinedly looking _anywhere _but him.

"That's fairly obvious," he murmured darkly, glancing up at her briefly.

There was silence for a while, broken only by Amanda's almost inaudible gasps of pain and Hoffman attempting to breathe quietly through his mouth in order to block out the powerful, medicinal fumes.

"That should keep infection from getting in," he said after a while, more to himself than to her, and turned away, "there's gotta be bandages around here _somewhere._"

Amanda fought the hot flush that was creeping up her neck as he rummaged around in the numerous boxes that lined the shelves on the far side of the _'_dungeon'. The detective wasn't wearing his usual police issue jacket and she could see the muscles of his back flexing underneath the blue cotton shirt he was wearing as he moved.

She thought about crossing her legs before deciding against it. More pain was _not _on her agenda.

Amanda hadn't bothered attempting to assess Hoffman's sense of smell, so she just had to sit there, legs open, praying to God he didn't realize exactly how aroused she was at that moment.

"Here, this'll have to do. I'll see if I can get some more later."

Mark—no, _Hoffman –_ returned to the table and unraveled the small roll of bandages.

"Should do for," he looked carefully over at the cuts, "maybe one thigh?"

"Whatever, just…do it quick, would you?" she said through clenched teeth.

Hoffman rolled his eyes at her and shook his head.

"Okay, you'll need to bend your knee up—"

"WHAT?"

"You'll need to bend you knee up so I can get to it! If your leg is lying flat on the table, I can't get the bandage around it."

"But…but…"

"Why is this bothering you so much, Amanda?" he demanded, "We're both adults and I'm just trying to stop you from _bleeding to death!"_

Amanda mumbled her reply, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze.

"What?"

"I don't _want_…"

"For fuck's sake, Amanda—"

"_**I don't want to open my legs to you, okay?" **_she finally burst out, her face now akin to the skin of a tomato.

There was a prolonged, tense quiet while Amanda simmered in her anger while Hoffman just stood there, silently.

"Funny," he said softly, "for some reason I always had a slight inkling that's what you _did_ want to do."

Amanda's heart skipped several beats and she turned her head to face him, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice several octaves higher than normal.

Hoffman shrugged innocently and idly lifted Amanda's leg a few inches off the bench in order to slip the bandage underneath.

"I was just assuming that, given the amount of times I've heard you moaning my name in your sleep—"

"I have _not _'moaned your name in my sleep'," she snarled, feeling goosebumps rising on her arms as his hands brushed over her skin.

"I have pretty good hearing, Amanda," he paused for a moment and grinned, "my sense of smell is fairly acute as well."

Every single drop of blood in Amanda's body immediately rushed from her face and down into her centre of heat. The fire in her stomach ignited and she could feel her muscles tense up.  
_  
Oh, god. _

"I would've thought," Hoffman continued, smoothing his fingers over the bandage, "you'd be so insanely hot about the idea of me fucking you, that this would be the first possible thing on your mind."

Amanda was frozen. Rage, hate, lust and want pumped through her body like adrenaline and she was absolutely _positive _if his hand moved any more up her thigh she'd either cut it off…or force it _higher. _

"Given that you haven't had a _proper _fuck since you were recruited by Jigsaw, I'm amazed you'd only gotten yourself off over me, rather than go straight for me."

He finished binding the bandage around her thigh and rested his hand on her other thigh, leaning in to the point that she could feel his breath against her neck.

"You're stuck in a fucking warehouse every day of the week and have been for months," he leant back enough so his nose was just about brushing hers, "I'm not surprised that you want to fuck me."

Amanda blinked.

The next second, she had grabbed Hoffman by head and shoved her mouth into his so hard, she was sure her lip had split.

Her legs, injured though they were, wrapped around his waist and slammed their lower bodies together.

Hoffman wasn't even slightly hesitant. His hands slipped up the back of Amanda's shirt and seized the back of her bra.

He broke away for long enough to get out, "Do you want me to--?" giving her the opportune moment to grab at his belt.

"Do you _really_ need to fucking ask?" she hissed, unbuckling the accessory in one deft movement, pulling it through all the loops and throwing it over her shoulder.

Hoffman's eyes widened a touch.

"Hold on a second—"

"No holding on," Amanda panted, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks, "no holding back."

Slipping off the bench and onto the floor, she deftly slid out of her underwear and pulled her shirt over her head.

Standing there, half naked save for her bra, she paused long enough to take in his expression.

"Is there a problem, Hoffman?"

He eyed her up carefully and smiled.

"Just the one, actually," he ran his hand up her side and leaned forward until his lips were a hair's breadth away from her earlobe.

"Call me Mark."


	2. Towel

**Towel**

_So warm…  
_  
Amanda curled further under the covers, a contented little smile on her lips as she reached across the bed to connect with…

Nothing.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up sharply, staring at the now empty side of the bed. Annoyed, she slammed a fist down where the shape of his body had left an imprint in the cream-coloured sheets.

It was still warm, so he must have only just gotten up. And was that the shower she could hear? Why yes, it was.

Throwing back the duvet, Amanda swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through her hair, immediately realizing it had been messed up in the traditional bed-head 'do. With a groan, she forced herself to get up and crossed the room to where he had, ever so courteously, dumped her clothes. And his, by the looks of it.

Bloody bastard.

Sorting through what was hers and what was his, she managed to extricate her underwear and…oh, goddammit.

Amanda held up the tattered remains of her shirt to eye level with a rather scornful look. This was the _third _shirt this week! This was getting progressively harder and harder to explain to John and Hoffman.

God forbid that that disgusting, egotistical snitch should find out what she was doing with this delicious hunk of a special agent. That's just what she _didn't _need. The ambitious, stuck-up, megalomaniacal detective, that John seemed to favour over her, finding out she was in a rather steamy relationship with the man that was trying to find them.

God, she hated him. Coincidentally, her sexy FBI agent shared this hatred of the detective, so when they were being overly recreational, they often took the time to theorize over how they'd eviscerate him, if given the chance.

Speaking of whom, how long does a man need to spend in the damn shower?

She grumbled to herself as she grabbed his shirt whilst attempting to comb her hair with her fingers.

Giving up almost immediately, she tied it back in a loose ponytail, deciding to fix it up properly later. Though, given the 'drive' of her companion, it was unlikely she'd have to anyway. He did always say that he loved her with sex-hair.

His apartment was fairly average in size, not so small that she had to stand on things just to get around, but not large enough to restrict them from making thorough use of every, single stable surface very…creatively.

She grinned at the thought, twisting the hem of her shirt –well, technically _his _shirt– and reaching for the instant coffee.

Five minutes and a hot cup of black coffee later, she became conscious of the sound of the shower shutting off.

"You finished in the shower, asshole?" she called.

"At long last, you hateful bitch," he replied sarcastically, his voice partially muffled by the closed bathroom door.

Chuckling to herself, Amanda walked over and knocked once on the door.

"You decent?"

"Does it matter?"

She had to work hard to swallow a snort.

"Suppose not."

Stepping into the bathroom, she was greeted by a face full of steam, effectively obscuring her vision.

"Didn't you turn on the fan?"

"Sorry, forgot," came the laugh from within the steam-cloud and he stepped out into her line of vision.

Her jaw just about hit the floor.

He was standing next to the sink, leaning casually against the side of it. His hair was wet and sexily mused, a black towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. He had gained quite the 'five o'clock shadow', no doubt due to his long hours on the job, but it gave him a very rugged, masculine air that made her weak in the knees.

While she had seen him totally naked before, it was _nothing _compared to now.

His skin was covered with water droplets that _shone _in the dim light from the energy efficient light bulbs. She found herself fixated on the light definition of his abdominal muscles and the tantalizing trail of dark hair leading down…_down…_

Over the years, Amanda had seen what happens when you spilt water on computers. She'd watched them sizzle and short-circuit and just stop working. She had no idea that brains could do the same thing.

"You—" she was practically salivating on the floor, "I should…I need to…"

"Yes, Manda?" he smirked at her, crossing his muscular arms across his chest.

She hated that look. She absolutely _despised _that 'guaranteed-to-melt-your-clothes-off' smirk that always had such an immediate affect on her.

"Should I come back later?" she asked weakly, looking up at him. He was, regrettably, at least eight inches taller than she was.

Taking a quick step forward, Strahm cut off her intended escape, that same lascivious grin spreading across his face, and his hands going straight for the shirt hanging loosely off her upper body.

"No, Manda, I think you can _come _right in."

All rational thought left her mind as her shirt and his black towel dropped to the bathroom floor.


	3. Surprise

**Surprise**

_**A/N: Very OOC characters here. I told you. Please don't eat my face.**_

There was a great many things that Amanda Young had experienced in her life. She'd begun life as a normal child, growing into a fairly normal teen before turning to heroin and cocaine at age twenty. She'd attended high school with dreams of becoming an actress, before dropping out to feed her habits.

But there was also a huge, and progressively growing, list of things she _didn't _fully understand.

The meaning of life, the point of quadratic equations, how people managed to ingest swiss cheese and how she'd ended up in bed wedged between two of the most unlikely men she thought she'd ever wind up sleeping with.

To say that she was mildly surprised to wake up feeling like someone had attempted to bash in her skull with a blunt side of a hammer, with one male with his arm curled possessively around her waist and another male lying partially across her thighs would be a _huge _understatement.

**"What the fuck!"**

Scrambling wildly to a sitting position, she regretted moving almost immediately.

"Motherfu—"

"The fuck is going on?" came the groan from the male across her legs, woken due to a rather impromptu knee to the face. Detective Mark Hoffman pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to fight off the impending headache. Amanda's jaw nearly unhinged.

"**What the hell are you doing here!?!"**

His jaw clenched and he fell back onto her legs.

"Not so bloody loud," he hissed, "it's too fucking early!"

"Quite the vocal bunch, you two."

The third occupant of the bed had woken as well, rolling over onto his back and massaging his temples with a groan.

"Fuck, how much did we have to drink last night?"

"By the looks of things, far too much," Mark grunted, propping himself up on one arm and eyeing their female bed partner, who had seized part of the sheet and was holding it to her chest, backing up into the headboard, her eyes wide.

"How did I…how did you—"

"I'm surprised you don't remember, Mandy," the other man tilted his head and grinned at her, "I gotta admit that last night was fucking phenomenal."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Special Agent Peter Strahm sat up casually, the sheet falling down around his waist.

"Hoffman and I had a _little _too much to drink, I think, after the whole thing with Perez—"

"And then you showed up," Mark interjected smoothly, "you offered to shout the next round and—" he gestured at the room, "_this _happened."

Amanda looked from one man to the other, horrific, terrible comprehension slowly dawning on her.

"You mean we…?" she trailed off, looking desperately from Strahm to Hoffman.

The two men exchanged a significant look and, in perfect unison, rolled their eyes and smirked.

"You were more pissed than us, Amanda—" said Strahm.

"And this was _your _idea," finished Hoffman, his full lips curved into a wry grin.

"My idea?" she was practically shrieking now, fully aware than both men were gradually advancing on her, twin predatory gleams in their eyes. It was frightening how alike they looked with that expression on their faces. They could've been brothers.

Or cousins, maybe.

"So, seeing as we're all practically recovered—" Strahm purred, running his hand over her hip.

"We might as well get right back to it," Hoffman completed the other man's sentence, lowering his lips to the bend of her right knee, ironically, the same knee that had collided with his cheekbone earlier.

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, _**no!**_"

Amanda jumped off the bed, holding a pillow to her front, and backed away across the room, gaping at Hoffman and Strahm.

"This is insane. Why the hell would I have had sex with you…with both of you…with _either _of you? I hate you! And I'm pretty sure you hate me! We all _hate _each other, so why the fuck did we suddenly decide to have a fucking threesome in some godforsaken rundown hotel in the middle of town where anybody we knew could've seen us!"

She rapidly exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, while the two men across the room from her shot her identical patronizing looks.

_It's like the fucking Double Mint twins!_

"You finished?" Strahm asked idly.

Amanda's nostrils flared.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Are you coming back over here now?" Hoffman inquired, cocking his head.

She gaped at him.

"Did you…did you not hear _anything _I just said?"

"Well, yeah, but since when has hating someone ever prevented anyone from enjoying a good fuck?"

"Um…"

"What he means is," Strahm cut it, "is that even though we're all technically enemies…well," he looked momentarily confused and looked over at Hoffman, "why did we all have sex?"

The other man's lip curled.

"It's not like _we _had sex, Strahm. We had sex with _her," _he gestured at Amanda.

"Hey! _She _is right here!" she snapped.

"I did notice. You are standing naked over there with nothing but a pillow to distract us from that fact, you know."

Amanda looked down, turned a rather becoming shade of red and stared determinedly in the other direction.

"So, what are we going to do?" she muttered.

"I don't know," Strahm stretched leisurely and yawned, "Personally, I could do with another round. You up for it, Mandy?"

Losing her patience, Amanda stormed round to Strahm side of the bed and used her one free hand to poke him in the chest.

"I am _not _your fucking whore, Strahm. I will _not _fuck you just because you feel like it!"

He didn't even blink.

"You sure? I distinctly remember you screaming for more the last time."

Blushing furiously, Amanda backed away in order to preserve her dignity and began looking around for her clothes.

"Where the hell are my jeans?"

"Personally, I'd have thought you'd be more concerned about these," came Mark's snide voice from behind her, "but then again…"

She whipped around to find the detective grinning at her and holding a pair of panties between two fingers.

"I have to say, I didn't take much notice of these last night," he raised an eyebrow and eyed her underwear appreciatively, "I wish I could've seen them on you."

"Give me that," she snarled, snatching them out of his hand and glaring at him.

"Love to see you try to get them back on without dropping the pillow," teased Strahm, sitting up against the headboard to get a better view.

Amanda went, if possible, even redder.

"Isn't there a fucking bathroom in here?" she grumbled.

"I don't think so," Mark mused, "this was pretty much the cheapest room in this entire place."

"Great. Fantastic. Not only have I just fucked with two men that I _hate_, it happened in the most shoddy, disgusting hotel room in all of fucking LA!"

Strahm looked like he was going to retort, but chose not to after seeing the look on Amanda's face.

"_What?"_

"Well…technically, _we _fucked _you_, Manda. Not the other way around…"

Amanda felt her eye twitch.

"Fuck. You. And don't call me that."

"You keep saying 'Fuck you', Mandy. You're sending mixed messages. Do you want to get back in bed with us or not?" taunted Hoffman,

Amanda gaped.

"You unbelievable, son of a bitch."

"You're like a constant downer, aren't you?" Strahm observed dryly.

"I can't fucking believe the pair of you! You act like this is a regular fucking occurrence or something!"

"Personally, I wouldn't mind that," said Hoffman, smirking suggestively at the other Jigsaw apprentice.

"I agree. This is exactly the kind of outlet we need. How else are we gonna stay sane throughout this whole ordeal?" said Strahm, nodding appreciatively.

Amanda was positive that her bottom jaw was about to drop off.

"Have you gone totally fucking nuts? We're talking about —_you're _talking about— having regular meetings just to have three-ways!"

Strahm grinned.

"Not interested, are you?"

"Not inter—not _interested? _I swear, it's through one fucking ear, out the fucking other with you!"

"You keep saying 'fucking' like you have it on the brain, Amanda," Hoffman leaned over and seized his boxers, pulling them on in one deft movement, "do you want to stay, or not?"  
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room, effectively backing her into a corner.

Strahm made a loud noise that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle.

"Show-off."

Hoffman threw a sarcastic glance over his shoulder at his male bed-companion, before looking back to Amanda, whose grip on her covering was becoming somewhat loose.

"So, _Manda_," he grinned sexily at her, "what do you say?"

Cornered, both literally and metaphorically, she looked from Hoffman's devastatingly sexy smirk to Strahm's smug expression, sighed in defeat and handed the detective the pillow.

"Here,

"You have it."


	4. Fantasy

**Fantasy**

**A/N: Contains femslash. Don't like, don't read. **

* * *

_"Do you live, do you die, do you bleed  
For the fantasy  
In your mind, through your eyes, do you see  
It's the fantasy..."_

* * *

The intoxicating aroma of burning incense, perfume and sweat permeated the air around him, enveloping his body and ensnaring his senses. He had absolutely no idea where he was, or why he was here.

Well, he had a _slight _idea as to where he was and _why _he happened to be there. But the reasons behind chaining him to a wall and forcing him to observe such an erotic act was completely beyond him.

The only light that touched their bodies was a dim, red spotlight. Everything else around them was totally dark. A dark, trance song was playing from unseen speakers, a low male voice chanting indistinct lyrics as the women moved to the beat.

Hands stroked impatiently at enflamed flesh, goosebumps pebbled on their pale, sumptuous skin and droplets of sweat gleamed like sparkling diamonds as they settled between ample cleavage.

They were fifty feet away from him and then suddenly less than five, their powerful, sensual scent, tormenting him in a way akin to holding a glass of cool water just out of reach of a man dying of thirst.

One of them moaned, arching up against the other woman with a look of pure euphoria spread across her face.

Strahm's eyes widened as he took in the identity of the submissive. The slim physique, the shoulder length dark hair, the faint outlines of scars along her forearms…

Amanda Young.

Clad in nothing save for a set of matching blood red underwear, the Jigsaw apprentice was writhing under the ministrations of the dominant female, her eyes half-lidded and her red-painted lips parted, making a noise Strahm had never considered he'd ever hear coming from a woman, a low, vibrato dirge that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end.

The other woman raised her head from Amanda's neck and grinned at him, her body moving in an almost cat-like way.

He didn't fully recognize her at first, most of her face was still cast into shadow, but then she moved her dark hair out of her eyes and he instantly recognized her.

It was his former girlfriend from nearly five years ago, Alecto Bishop. There was no mistaking the long, jet-black hair that he'd thoroughly enjoyed tangling his fingers in, the sparkling dark blue eyes and the swirling, tribal tattoo on her lower back. Unlike Amanda, however, she wore a pair of those delicious black leather pants that clung to her long legs like a second skin and boots. From the waist up, there was nothing to obscure his view of her perfectly formed, alabaster breasts

She smiled that familiar mischievous smile and returned her lips to Amanda's neck, one hand on each of the younger woman's thighs, black painted fingernails digging into pallid flesh.

Strahm strained against his bonds, utterly fixated by the agonizingly slow movement of their bodies, Alecto's rhythmic grinding against the other woman and Amanda's moans of satisfaction.

"You like, Peter?" her voice rang out in echoes that bounced off the walls and she straddled Amanda's waist, running her fingers through her hair.

"_God!" _Strahm gasped, the shackles biting into his wrists as he tried in vain to get closer to the two temptresses only a metre away.

"Did you hear, Mandy?" she purred into the other woman's ear, "he likes what he sees."

Amanda turned her head so he was in her view and she smiled, raising her upper body until Alecto's breasts were pressed against her own.

"Does he?"

Alecto nodded, not once taking her eyes of the FBI agent.

"He likes more than he thinks he should," she purred to the younger woman, "but he can't seem to tear his eyes away."

"You think he'd like to fuck us?" Amanda drawled, tracing lazy circles around Alecto's left breast.

"You think he'd like to watch us fuck?" Alecto replied, turning briefly to look at her lover and then back at Strahm.

Amanda didn't reply, she just looked up at her lover and kissed her.

If Strahm wasn't hard before, he was now. He felt like he was seconds from actually drooling at the spectacle in front of him, his most despised criminal's apprentice and his ex-girlfriend touching and caressing each other, their tongues battling for dominance in their fiery, hungry kiss.

"Alecto!" he growled, mentally willing her to include him in her delicious display, but she appeared not to have heard him, mental or otherwise.

He felt a gasp of pure jealousy and lust escape him as the two women ground against each other, moaning in their ecstasy.

Alecto's hand dipped in between Amanda's thighs, disappearing from sight as the younger woman screamed in pleasure.

"_Strahm!"_

His name rolled off her lips perfectly, each syllable dripping with honey as she arched against the other woman.

"Strahm, oh, god, _yes!" _Alecto groaned into Amanda's ear.

Their words quickly became a chant as they rubbed against each other, touching, kissing, all while screaming his name to the empty air around them.

"_Strahm…Strahm…Strahm...Strahm...Strahm...STRAHM!!"  
_

"—Strahm? _Strahm! _For God's sake, wake up!"

"Huh, what?" Special Agent Peter Strahm lifted his head off his desk, the bright light assaulting his vision, "Gah!"

Lindsay stood over him, shaking her head.

"I know you need sleep, but this is _not _the place to do it!"

"Sleep?"

_Goddammit._

"Yeah. You conked out about twenty minutes ago," Perez slid a steaming cup of coffee under his nose.

"Thanks."

He took a long swig and ran a hand through his hair as his partner turned to leave. She paused at the door.

"Just one quick question, Peter," she said slowly.

"Who's Alecto?"


	5. Reaper

**Reaper**

**A/N: A little oneshot/drabble I wrote for a friend of mine. ****Bear in mind, this is a NON-ROMANCE!**

_

* * *

_

"All our times have come  
Here but now they're gone  
Seasons don't fear the reaper..."

* * *

In the five years that he'd known her, he'd always thought how it seemed that she never aged at all. She was as small, black-haired and wide-eyed as he remembered when she was only in high school.

She had been their neighbor. She'd worked at the local supermarket as a part time cashier who always had a smile on her face and a conversational drive that could put elderly women to shame.

A friend of the family, she'd been there when Jill had first become pregnant with Gideon. He remembered them sitting on the couch together, giggling and gossiping like the teen she was and Jill used to be.

She'd always smelt strongly of that powerful, musky incense she'd always burned in her room to block out the smell of her stepfather's marijuana creeping in through the gap under her door, music blaring through a pair of expensive, heavy duty headphones to block out the smashing of glasses and numerous ceramics and the screams of her mother.

He remembered her long-sleeved shirts and wristbands. She hadn't wanted anyone to see, but he'd known.

He'd let it go, because she'd asked him to.

She'd always dressed in dark colours; black, purple and grey were the more common few. He'd told her she'd look better in emerald green, or perhaps gold. She'd smiled and patted his arm, thanking him for cheering her up yet again, subconsciously rubbing her hand against the bruise on her cheek, carefully covered with a thick layer of foundation.

He remembered her crying on Jill's shoulder at the funeral, smudging the crisp, pristine white of her blouse with silver and black.

Jill hadn't cared. And neither had he. She was like family. She _was _family. And now, they were her only family.

He remembered her sitting in front of the open fireplace at their home, wearing Jill's white cardigan and staring into the depths of the dancing flames like they would give her the answers to the universe, the flickering light reflecting of the twin tears running down her cheeks as they fell onto the carpet, where they quickly dried and disappeared.

He should've done more than just watched her cry.

After the funeral, she went to live with her aunt and uncle in Massachusetts. He remembered her being glad to leave the house of so many horrible memories. She'd been sorry to leave them, she'd promised to stay in contact as much as possible.

Fifty letters, at least two hundred phone calls and forty-seven email messages, she dropped off the radar completely.

Her aunt and uncle reported her missing on the morning of 2004, exactly two days after Jill had lost Gideon at the clinic.

At the time, she had been in extensive therapy at the time for post-traumatic stress disorder after witnessing the brutal murder of her mother. She'd been progressing and was well on the road to a full recovery.

He remembered the haunted look in her eyes on all the "Missing" posters her family put up around their towns. He remembered thinking that this was not the cheerful, intelligent teen he had known what felt to be a lifetime ago.

Her curls were limp and unkempt, eyes huge and dark with the lack of sleep and a pale, empty looking face. A school photo. Hardly the most flattering idea, but it was the only present photo they had.

In truth, he knew it was because they couldn't find any photographs from before the funeral.

She hadn't smiled after that.

It seemed like another life in which he'd seen her last, and now, standing near the end of his hospital bed, there she was.

Even now, she still looked the same, though now, her face was glowing with new life and her eyes were as bright and sharp as they had been before the tragedy. This was not the girl from the "Missing" posters that were now going moldy under coffee-soaked, traffic reports on a pin-up board in some obscure police precinct.

This was the fifteen-year-old girl who'd lived next door and been his wife's gossiping buddy.

This was the teenager who leapt across her register to pull a pram out of the way of an out of control trolley.

This was the girl who had lost her own life trying save a complete stranger, only to be posted up on "Missing" posters and forgotten.

She cast no shadow on the wall, or the ground on which she stood. Her arms were by her sides, and her stature was casual.

She was smiling.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Alexandra. How are you?"

She laughed then, shaking black curls out of her eyes.

"Y'know.

"Dead."


	6. Vermillion

**Vermillion**

* * *

_"Cause I want it now  
I want it now  
Give me your heart and your soul..."_

* * *

Red was her colour.

The shade of bruised lips, swollen from the force of his vicious kisses. Her nails leaving deep, scarlet welts in his back, laying ownership upon him even in her ecstasy. The colour of the sheets beneath them, silken and soft, just like her.

Amanda's light perfume, his cologne and the primal, animalistic scent of sex soaked into the bed and filled the room, enveloping them.

Her back was arched, her eyes half lidded and rolled back into her head, and handfuls of sheet were clutched between slender fingers, red painted nails dug deep into the material.  
Crimson lips were parted, moans of need and the repeated chant of his name escaping them.

He loved having control over her.

"God, _Mark!" _she gasped, her hardened nipples pressing burning points into his chest.

He leaned in to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses on her throat, one hand still holding her thigh to his hip.

"Tell me what you want," he growled into her ear, pausing in his rhythmic thrusting to stare down at her delicate body, a fine sheen of sweat coating her delicious, pale skin with diamonds.

"Y-you…I want…I want _you," _she writhed beneath him, grinding her lower body against his own in a weak effort to prompt him to continue his sweet torture upon her, "_please."_

The sound of her desperate plea for satisfaction set his nerves on fire and for a moment, he almost obliged.

But then he remembered just how much he enjoyed making her struggle and scream and beg for release only he was capable of giving her.

He loved watching her facial expressions as she shrieked beneath his skilled hands and fingers, feeling her pulse quicken and her muscles tensing wherever he touched her.

"Please…please, _God!" _she was begging now, pleading with him to let her reach the pinnacle of her ecstasy and fall with him.

He chuckled and lightly pushed his hips forward, further sheathing himself in hot, slick flesh.

"_Ohhhhhh!!"_

"Tell me what you want me to do, Amanda," he purred, stroking the shell of her ear with his tongue. "Tell me _everything _you want me to do to you_." _

"I want…I want…" her eyes rolled back in her head again as Mark circled her left breast with the tip of his finger.

"What do you want, Mandy?"

Her eyes fluttered open, momentarily locking with his, her pupils dilated fully.

"Fuck…me," she hissed, panting heavily, red nails digging into his upper arms as she locked her legs around his waist and began tightening them like a vice. "I want you…to _fuck me_, Hoffman!"

She rubbed herself against him with each word, her bottom lip held between her teeth.

For a moment, Mark came excruciatingly close to losing control. The combination of her sultry, desperate words, her grinding against him and the lust-filled expression nearly undid him.

The powerful, animalistic urge to fuck her through the mattress rushed through him as suddenly as burning adrenaline. Managing to maintain control over himself, he smirked at her, resisting the overwhelming need to pant.

"Believe me, I'll get to that," he purred, "but I think I'll make you _scream _a little more."

Amanda's eyes widened and she shook her head.

"God…no. Please…_please_. Let me—"

"Shh," he whispered, trailing his nails up her side, "don't scream yet. Don't scream until I say you can scream."

"Mark, please…"

Shifting his hips, he unsheathed himself and drew back, bending downward to brush his lips over her thighs.

"Amanda…"

Her name was a breath against her own skin and made her shiver with need. It had taken him a very long time to get her to this point. Usually, she'd fight him for domination, biting and scratching every inch of him she could reach until she managed to get above him. But now, he'd made her realize just how much being submissive benefitted her. Besides, after the first few times of trying to dominate him, she'd had to take pain meds just so she could walk afterwards.

He could be quite brutal when he wanted to be.

Her eyes fluttered shut again when he exhaled a warm breath over her burning heat, a wolfish grin curving his lips.

Amanda edged her foot along his arm encouragingly, red-painted toes curling inward.

"Maaaaark…" she drew out his name teasingly, before it became a sharp gasp as his mouth closed over her.

The detective grinned against her, teeth closing around her clit as his tongue circled around her most sensitive area, receiving a groan of satisfaction in return.

Amanda fisted her hand in Mark's hair and arched backward, eyes roaming over the ceiling, searching for something to focus on to keep her vision from going fuzzy as Mark ran his tongue along her drenched slit.

The dark-haired man paused in his ministrations as he felt Amanda's body relax abruptly and raised his eyes so he could see her face.

She was staring off to the side, her expression one of intense arousal and fascination. He followed her line of vision and smirked.

Kinky.

He didn't think Amanda would be one to enjoy watching herself being fucked. Well, not quite _yet _though…

"Enjoying the show?" he purred, immediately breaking her from her trance.

Her gaze abruptly switched back to him, suddenly aware that his face was no longer between her thighs. He turned to the mirror and his reflection smirked back at him.

He looked back down at Amanda and grinned.

"Let's say we make this more interesting." he said.

She cocked an eyebrow.

"How?"

Mark only smiled again and pulled her up so her back was against his chest and they were both looking into the mirror. Amanda's eyes widened considerably as she took in the sight of Mark opening her thighs.

"Keep watching," he purred into her ear, easing her slowly downward until the tip of him was pressing against her opening. She stared, enthralled, as he moved deeper, watching him disappear within her slick folds, inch by inch.

Mark smirked and latched onto her neck, kissing and sucking at the sweet spot just below her jaw.

"You like that?" he murmured, jerking his hips upward and eliciting a low moan in response.

"God…yes!"

"Do you like watching me fuck you?"

Amanda tilted her head back and breathed into his ear.

"_Yesssssss."_

Mark smirked again before capturing her mouth with his own, thrusting up into her as she tightened her inner muscles around the length of him and groaned into the kiss.

Amanda glanced into the mirror again and smiled against Mark's lips.

"Let's _turn things around_," she purred, lifting herself off his lap momentarily, to spin herself around to face him.

Even if he did enjoy watching them fucking in the mirror, Mark found the view of Amanda's pert breasts a worthy compromise.

Swirling her hips almost casually from her impaled position, the Jigsaw apprentice grinned down at Mark, who was now lying on his back to properly enjoy the sight of her on top of him.

"Having fun?" he teased.

Amanda smirked down at him, tracing a fingernail over his chest.

"I'm thinking about getting out your handcuffs, Hoffman," she replied, "I've always wanted to tie you down to something."

His eyes glittered with lust and mischief and his tongue darted out to wet his lips at her words.

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing, but I think _I'll _be the one tying you up."

She grinned down at him, brought her hips up and slammed them back down, making the man beneath her release a throaty moan.

"I think I'll be the one making the decisions now, Detective," she purred, reaching for the table. His blood rushed to his lower region as Amanda dangled his handcuffs in front of him, a suggestive smile on her lips.

He didn't doubt her.

* * *

**A/N: Just something for the HoffmanAmanda fans out there. Hope you enjoyed it x]**


	7. Follow

**Follow**

**dedicated to ScenicEyes**

* * *

_"Believe that the sun will shine tomorrow  
And that's a saints and sinners pleas  
We weren't born to follow..."_

* * *

"Can you see me?"

Amanda is blinded, her wrists tied to the chair she sits upon. Her ankles are free. She cannot see.

"No."

"Good."

A hand, cool against her cheek, stroking gently. Amanda shudders. This is not the hand of a man, she knows that much. The voice is low, cool but distinctly feminine.

"Tell me your name."

"Amanda."

"Why did you seek me out, Amanda?"

"I wanted to know you."

"And why is that?"  
Amanda swallows, the hand is removed and she is left alone in the darkness. No touch. No sight. No feeling.

"You…you fascinate me."

A chuckle emanates from the dark. She cannot tell from where.

"I am not usually one to fascinate people. I'm intrigued, Amanda. Why is it that I 'fascinate' you?"

She shudders, the feeling of warm breath over her throat making goosebumps erupt down her arms, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up on end.

"You're a murderer," she whimpers, straining against her bonds in an attempt to get closer. "You're beautiful…powerful…"

"Evil?"

The voice finishes her sentence for her, the tip of a long fingernail scraping over Amanda's cheek, the young woman gasping in response.

"Yes…"  
A long pause. Then a chuckle.

"You must have been very brave or very stupid to come after me alone, Amanda."

Disappointment.

"I'm sorry," Amanda whimpers. "I just…I followed you, because I didn't think I'd ever get to see you again."

"So you ran," the voice purrs. "You abandoned your instincts and followed me, despite everything you had ever heard about me."

A hand on her leg now, nails digging into her flesh with just enough pressure to leave marks.

"You are young…and foolish."  
The hand is gone. She can still feel where it had rested.

"You ran after me with no thought for yourself," Amanda's heart jolts as she feels the cold steel of a blade against her throat. "I could have killed you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have lost a moment of sleep over it."

Amanda didn't dare to breathe, the knife breaking the first layer of skin, a trickle of blood running down her throat. She whimpers.

"Young blood."  
She moans, the warm tongue of her captor running over her neck, taking the blood for herself.

"A heroin addict," the other woman says casually after a moment.

Amanda doesn't dare lie.

"Yes."

"A cutter. I can smell other blood on you." The hand is back, running up her thigh, tracing the slowly healing scars with the tip of her finger. Amanda swallows hard.

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question comes as a surprise. No one has ever asked this of her. No one knew. And the ones that did, didn't care.

"Life hurts," was Amanda's quiet response.

"So, you hurt yourself?"

One hand on her thigh, the other now on her cheek, gently wiping away a tear that had threatened to fall, soft and caring.

Affection.

"What else can I do?"

The hand on her cheek pauses, but doesn't move away.

"Live."

The response is quiet and had they been anywhere else, Amanda would never have heard it. The hand on her thigh disappears. She feels it on the back of her head, touching the knotted blindfold.

"In this life, you have no idea how lucky you are."

The blackness drops. Amanda can see.

The room is dark, empty aside from herself and her captor, who kneels on the floor in front of her, the sleek head angled downward. She cannot see the other woman's face.

"Can I…?"

The sentence is left empty as the woman raises her head. Amanda is lost in eyes of molten gold, hypnotized.

A long moment passes before she speaks.

"You are afraid."

A statement. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Wise of you."

No expression on her face. She rises, her face level with Amanda's. Her head tilts, seemingly curious.

"You've been ravaged by the life you chose," she said softly. "You've allowed it to." Her hand, pale, white and long-fingered, caresses Amanda's cheek.

"Someone so beautiful should not be so miserable."

A sob escapes her, a heaving breath that tightens around her chest and heart, suffocating her.

"Please…"

It is a plea. She knows that. But what is it for?

_Let me go…_

_Save me…_

_Kiss me…_

_Help me…_

The fathomless yellow eyes seem to pierce her very soul, looking straight at her, past the hooker, past the junkie. Just her.

Her wrist bonds are cut. She is pulled to her feet, cold hands digging into her elbows, that pale face just inches from her own.

"Please, what?" she asked softly.

Amanda's bottom lip trembles. She isn't sure. She doesn't know what to say.

"Make it stop hurting."

The scarlet lips against hers block out the world, the dark room becomes oblivion as Amanda loses herself in the kiss.

A myriad of questions run through her head. She dismisses them. She doesn't care. All that matters is here.  
Now.

"Please love me…"


	8. Hate

**Hate**

**  
Dedicated to teenage_roadkill **

* * *

_"The sun goes up and the sun goes down  
I drag myself into the town  
All I do I wanna to do with you..."_

* * *

It was a mind game. More of a mind-fuck than anything else. Taunting, teasing, she was always two steps ahead of him. Insolent, arrogant, he always managed to get her guard down and surprise her.

They were rough, spontaneous. Their passion, for lack of a better word, knew no boundaries. He wanted her more every time he had her. The enigma of her character seemed so much clearer when her clothes were at the end of his bed, or scattered around the room as the case often was. There was no love between them. Barely any affection, either. Their connection was brutal, animalistic.

Biting, scratching, mindlessly fucking whenever the mood happened to strike them. Keeping their hands off each other was becoming more and more difficult as time went on. A slight brush of skin was enough to send them lunging at each other, mouths smashing together as tongues fought for dominance.

A constant battle between them. An endless struggle that never failed to satisfy.

----

She was a screamer. Her tendency to vocalize made their encounters all the more exciting and served to remind them of the risks involved. Perhaps screwing her on the hood of his car had been a bad idea, especially since they were in the police parking lot. But they thrived on the danger; the thrill of being caught made the sex all the more intense and left them both starving for more.

Hoffman never failed to have her howling his name by the end of it, no matter how little time they spent wrapped up in each other. He knew which buttons to push and how to push them to get the reaction he wanted. He liked to think he knew her body better than she did and often, he was certain that he did.

Having her moaning and screaming beneath him was Hoffman's definition of the end of a good day.

----

He hated her. And he was sure than she hated him too, but it never seemed to stop them. In a way, the sex was their way of taking out their frustrations on each other, which was why Amanda often found herself numb from the waist down after a couple of particularly violent rounds and why his back was bleeding from long, deep scratches.

They bit, scratched and bruised each other to the point where taking aspirin after sex had become more than a regular occurrence. He marked her as his, his teeth imprinted into her soft, pale flesh. He despised her, but it didn't stop him from possessing her. The moment she had yielded to him the first time, he had claimed ownership and Amanda Young became the property of Detective Mark Hoffman. She didn't realize it and she likely never would, but she belonged to him, body, mind and soul.

----

He loved her. And he knew she loved him too. It was a complex relationship, fueled by their lust and mutual dependency. He needed her just as much as she needed him, if not more so. It drove him insane. _She _drove him insane. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

He'd take her however he chose, lusty and wanton with her panties still hanging off one ankle or quiet and miserable, knife blade pressed against her inner thigh. He'd licked the knife clean, and then the wounds. Her blood tasted sweet and spicy, distinctly coppery. Delicious. He'd consumed her in every sense of the word.

"Don't stop," she hissed. "Don't you dare stop."

He'd raised his head, his lips stained red with her blood.

_"Never…"_

He would never, ever stop. There was no force in this universe that could stop him from hating her. There was nothing any God could do to stop him from loving her. His heart knew everything and nothing about how he felt about her. It was too hard to understand.

----

She liked to ask him questions sometimes, before he fucked her. Taunting him, she would shed her clothing as he answered her, a slow strip show that set his loins on fire.

"What's your darkest fantasy?" she asked him, pulling her shirt over her head and hanging it neatly over the chair in his bedroom, turning around and eyeing him from under long, dark lashes.

He stood rigid against the wall, his lips curved into a wry smile. "You are my fantasy," he murmured in return, undoing his tie and dropping it onto his desk.

Amanda chuckled, reaching up to take her hair down from its ponytail, the dark brown waves cascading down her back and settling just below her shoulder blades.

"Liar."

He liked it when she let her hair down, he liked curling it around his hand, forcing her head back and biting into her clavicle.

"Why would I lie to you?" he asked, shedding his police issue jacket and dropping it casually to the floor.

Making a soft noise of amusement, Amanda reached down, undoing her belt and allowing her pants to drop, the black material pooling around her ankles.

"Because you just want to fuck me," she replied almost casually. Her underwear was mismatched, her lower body clad in black panties and her breasts encased in a scarlet-coloured bra.

Black and red. They were her colours and he liked them on her.

"And me fucking you has something to do with me lying to you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he shed his shirt, crossing the room until he stood toe-to-toe with her. He towered over her easily.

She met his gaze evenly.

"If you lie to me, you get nothing."

"Do you really think you get to make that choice?"

"You saying you'd rape me?"

"You think it'd be rape, Amanda?"

The honest answer was 'no', he knew that much. She blinked, her dark eyes fixed on his before she lowered her gaze, hooked her fingers into the waistband of his slacks and pulled him backward toward the bed.

----

He liked watching Amanda sleep sometimes, on the nights when she wasn't plagued by nightmares or unable to pass out altogether. Her face lacked any kind of expression, perfectly smooth and serene, like a statue, her lips often swollen and bruised.

But when she was like that, it was like the Amanda he knew during the waking hours ceased to exist. She looked younger, as though the weight of the world had not yet crushed her spirit to dust. If he looked closely, he could still see her scars on either side of her mouth, too light to be seen from a distance.

The Reverse Bear Trap. Even now she treated the device with an amount of distaste that he understood quite well. He hadn't been able to even _glance _into a mirror after his 'test.' He'd smashed every single one in his apartment out of sheer terror. He had nightmares of John stepping through them and shooting him in the head with that shotgun for weeks afterward.  
They'd subsided. Eventually.

"Stop staring at me," she mumbled grumpily, opening her eyes a crack to glare at him. "It's hard to sleep with your eyes burning into my face, idiot."

A smirk curved his lips.

"I can't sleep, so sorry if I'm trying to look for something to do."

"And staring at me is something to do?" she cocked an eyebrow at him. Hoffman chuckled, reaching over to brush her fringe out of her eyes.

"You're impossible," he drawled, trailing his fingers down her face.

"And you're unbelievable," she shot back, rolling over. "Now, fuck off and let me sleep, would you?"

Shaking his head, Hoffman reached over and draped an arm around her waist.

"Bitch," he growled into her ear

"Fucker," she murmured in return as she drifted off once again.

----

He didn't know why he kissed her. Normally, kissing was just a prelude to sex and was as violent as the subsequent act. It hadn't been then. He had caught her sitting at the bottom of the shower, naked aside from her panties and soaking wet, her knife pressed into her thigh, blood streaming down her leg in scarlet rivulets, washed down the drain by the lukewarm droplets. She hadn't looked up, even though he knew she knew he was there.

He considering undressing for a moment, before deciding against it and stepped into the shower cubicle, moving to sit down with her.

"Give me the knife," he said.

She hadn't looked at him, but she obeyed, dropping the weapon into his hand. He was glad that this time he didn't have to wrestle it from her.

"How many times?" he asked quietly, placing the knife out of reach. "How many more goddamn times are you going to do this to yourself?"

"I don't know."

Her response didn't surprise him, nor did the fact that she was crying.

"He's getting worse, Mark," she said tearfully. She only ever used his first name when she was like this. "He's dying."  
John.

Her mentor was the one that always caused her so much pain, even if it was a pain she made herself feel.

"He's been dying for a long time, Amanda," he replied. "He's not getting better."

She slapped him.

He kissed her.

She didn't fight him, not this time. She clung to him, gripping him as tightly as she could. He let her, one hand tangling in her hair.

Hoffman didn't know how long they stayed like that, but by the time they broke apart, the water was cold and his clothes were saturated.

----

"Why did you say it?"

"I don't know."

"Why would you lie to me like that?"

"It wasn't a lie."

She looked so vulnerable. Pale, shaking, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. For a moment, he regretted saying anything. Maybe she wasn't ready to hear what he was still coming to terms with himself. But he'd said it now, and there was no taking it back.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

"We had a good thing going," she said. "Why do you have to fuckin' ruin a good thing, Hoffman?"

"I haven't ruined anything and you know it."

She glared at him, her eyes filling up with tears. She was hurting. Despite how happy this would make anyone else, it cut Amanda to the bone. He could tell. He had felt the same way.

"I thought this was enough," she said. "What more can there be for us but sex?"

"I don't know. This is an emotion, not a prophecy. I have no idea how this will change things."

"Of course, it's gonna fucking change things!" she shouted angrily. "You have no fucking idea what this will do!"

"No, I don't." Hoffman was amazed by how calm he sounded. "And I don't care either."

Amanda was silent for a long moment, searching for something to say. Was she going to shout at him? Tell him to get out?

"Why?" she finally said, tears streaming down her face. "Why do you love me?"

Hoffman shook his head. "I don't know why. I just…know that I do. Despite everything."

_Defiance._

"Tell me you hate me."

"I hate you."

She took a step toward him, angling her face upward.

"Tell me you love me."

He didn't break her tear-filled gaze.

"I love you."

"Will you ever leave me?"

"Never."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Hit me."

He slapped her across the face with no hesitation, his hand leaving a red mark on her cheek.

"Kiss me."

Mark seized Amanda and kissed her, his hands clenched around her upper arms. A part of him said that he could stay like this forever, wrapped up in her warm embrace. And the other part was aching because of what he was going to have to do to her.

_I'm sorry. _


	9. Shot

**Shot**

* * *

_"Bang bang  
I shot you down, bang bang  
You hit the ground , bang bang  
That awful sound, bang bang  
I used to shoot you down..."_

* * *

His eyebrows were furrowed in total concentration. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips. A finger twitched around the trigger…paused…and fired.

Two reports shattered the silence and two cans fell off their precarious balance on the shoulder-height wall.

Amanda stood with her mouth agape, transfixed by the sight of the tall man emptying the magazine of bullets from the gun.

Frank brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes, his tongue between his teeth as he casually selected another deadly weapon.

"Don't just stand there lurkin', 'Manda," he said sharply, not once looking in her direction. "Come over here."  
Amanda's eyes widened. How could he have known that she was there? She'd not made a sound, or even moved a muscle!

Frank looked up this time, a slight smile on his lips.

"Come on, now, I ain't gonna to bite you."

Cautiously, and slightly timidly, Amanda walked into Frank's supposed line of sight. He smirked and extended a hand.

"You've been standin' there for nearly ten minutes, 'Manda, why didn't you come over?"

"I didn't know you realized I was there," she mumbled, pointedly avoiding his stare.

Frank chuckled and loaded a new pistol, eyeing it critically.

"I could smell you the moment you got here, 'Manda." he raised his eyes back to the Jigsaw apprentice's face and grinned, "Love the new perfume."

Amanda smirked, not bothering to tell him she wasn't actually _wearing _any.

"Thanks."

Frank made a soft noise of amusement.

"Can you shoot?" he asked, turning toward the line of 'targets' across the room.

"Not very well, I guess," she admitted, "I've done a little bit!" she added quickly with a scowl. "I'm not a complete idiot!"

Frank nodded.

"I didn't expect you to, so," he cocked his head inquiringly, "d'ya want me to teach you?"

"Do I—what?"

"Do you want me…to teach you…how to shoot?" Frank repeated, as if speaking to a five-year-old.

Amanda flushed in irritation.

"Yeah, okay. Sure."

Frank gestured at the table of guns.

"Choose one."

Amanda grabbed the first gun she saw, a sleek looking Magnum.45 complete with silencer.

She looked up expectantly at Frank, who grinned.

"Alright, then. Show me your stance."

Amanda turned forward, her front facing the cans, and raised the gun, finger resting on the trigger.

"Hmmm."

She turned her head at the disapproving sound emitted from Frank's mouth.

"No, no," Amanda inhaled sharply as she felt his muscular body against her side and a hand around her left wrist, "One hand, not two."

She held back the shiver that wanted desperately to race down her spine as Frank's hand closed over her shoulders, lowering her arm.

"Turn sideways to the target."

Almost absently, Frank brushed Amanda's hair away from the side of her throat, making the fine hairs on the back of the apprentice's neck stand up on end.

"Lookin' along your shoulder," his hand travelled the length of Amanda's arm, his fingertips just brushing her side.

"Down your arm…" he raised his own arm for emphasis, making a gun shape with his fingers, "Straight line to the sights…"

"Bring up the gun—_whoa, whoa, whoa!_"

Frank seized the hand holding the gun as Amanda brought it rapidly to eye level, and once again returned it to her side.

"Too fast," he murmured into Amanda's ear, his breath hot against her skin, "it's all in the breathin', 'Manda"

Amanda wanted to melt into his close embrace, wanted the hand now upon her shoulder to travel down, _down…_

Now Frank's hand was over hers and her eyes, which at some point must have closed, snapped open. Together, they raised the weapon slowly to aim at the first can.

"Hold it firmly" Frank's voice was a breathy whisper, his lips inches from Amanda's heated skin. "Don't grip it." Looking squarely into Amanda's eyes, he reached over and cocked the pistol.

Momentarily distracted by the sound, Amanda looked away from Frank, her attention shifting to the now loaded weapon in her hand.

One hand still holding hers to the gun, Frank pressed a hand to Amanda's waist.

The Jigsaw apprentice nearly forgot to breathe.

"Breathe in," he murmured into 'Manda's ear, "Focus. Breathe out. Squeeze gently…"

_Oh God._

Amanda's vision was becoming blurred. She could barely _see_ the can…

The loud report from the gun broke the moment and Amanda nearly fell out of Frank's embrace. The can fell off the top of the wall and onto the ground, pierced by a single bullet.

Dead centre.

The sound of the gun was still ringing in her ears when Frank tightened his grip around her waist and absolutely _purred _in Amanda's ear.

"Not bad for your first time," he murmured.

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**A/N: A promotional piece written for my collaborative story with Renegade Vic, 'Long Time Dead', which can be found on my profile. Cookies for all who read and review!!**


	10. Lament

**Lament**

**A/N: Apologies for lack of updates, I've been massively busy ^^;; Hope you enjoy! **

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_"Swallow me under and pull me apart_  
_I understand there's nothing left_  
_Pain so familiar and close to the heart_  
_No more, no less, I won't forget..."_

* * *

Would he call it a lamentation? No, that would be redundant. And if he was anything, it was a man of principle, as much as the rest of society would deem him otherwise. He knew what they yelled at him from their couches, leaning forward as far as their guts would allow, howling insults at a box filled with voices and faces, of pixels, meaning nothing.

He knew. He didn't care. He was used to it. It didn't matter. It never had. It was over anyway.  
What was the point in denying reality? It was present, it was here, obvious. He'd left it behind after she'd died, turning his back on his fellow man. His soul died with her, leaving only an empty chasm where he had once been human.

(What was human?)

Shoved ahead, hands cuffed behind his back by men he had once called comrades, they lead him through crowded streets, through the masses of furious human beings with their batons, their stun guns, their shields. Protectors of monsters from the ripping, clawing hands of the mobs that would love nothing more than to have his blood on their hands.

Endless words, blending together until he could hear nothing but white noise, muted among a million faces.

Fury.

Hatred.

Fear.

They were afraid. Humans always attacked what they didn't understand, feared those above them. What is a threat? The ruthless means of a psychopath like him, the blood of hundreds split in the attempt to rehabilitate, to save. Not that it had worked, he had never thought it would. He had seen enough of people to know that if humans didn't want to stop, they would never stop. They would shoot up, fuck, steal and kill even if it meant they were wasting their lives, spending everything they had for a momentary high that would only ever send them back to square one.

_(Dystopia. n. __an imaginary place where everything is as bad as it can be)  
_

John had known. John had seen, but he chose to live in the hope that there was hope for them, that one day they would turn around, and realize that the only way to survive…was by cherishing the short lives them had. It was hypocritical in a sense but…it was the truth. He at least was a single voice among the masses of people that sought to prosecute him, to kill him for his crimes against society. He knew he had done 'wrong' in killing them, twisted the system to his own ends.

He didn't care. What did it matter? He was dead anyway. And if he were religious, he'd go to Hell. A welcome escape from the world above, the burning flames licking hungrily at his flesh would replace the reaching hands.

(_Long is the way and hard, that through Hell leads up to light – Milton)  
_

He would embrace it. He was not a foolish man, but he was a self-confessed idealist. Hell was beauty, this world was chaos. It made more sense for someone like him to be relieved before the masses of others joined him.

His father had raised him and his sister as Roman Catholics, taken God into their hearts at a young age before he realized that if there was a God, he was not listening to him. Nor had he ever. Why else had Angelina died? Why else did he find himself not caring that he had lost the game? His face was ruined, disfigured by the trap that had come so close to destroying his only competition before the real game had even begun. He had been arrested. By fucking Fisk, no less. The shock in his eyes almost made it all the more amusing.

He'd done his job. No one had known. A few had. They had been eliminated. Strahm, Kerry, Perez, Erickson. For their deaths, he now stood on trial, along with another long line of offenses he barely cared to listen to. What did it matter? The city hated him, wanted to see him choke on his last breath on National TV, to curse his name over a few glasses of champagne. A true celebration of the defeat of a new evil, in decadence, indulgence.

Disgusting.

John would turn in his grave at this sight. This was no justice. Or maybe it was? Wasn't he indeed guilty of the senseless deaths of many? Genocidal maniac, they called him. He wondered if they knew that that was such a large exaggeration of the situation. They liked to think that _he _was Jigsaw, that it was him that orchestrated everything under the façade of a dying old man. Not far from the truth, he conceded. If anything, it confirmed his suspicions of what the human race was really like. He remembered something Amanda had told him when they first started out doing…whatever the fuck it was. John's work.

"You know, society works like this. It works for a while, the drones maybe shoot a few of each other in the meantime. But put them in a life-threatening situation? They'll eat each other."  
She was right. More than right. She knew. It was a simple truth and, while they might never have gotten on,  
(understatement)  
Amanda was a visionary for John's work. She believed she could make it work, that she could save everyone.

"Naïve little girl."

Once upon a time, she might have replaced his sister, becoming his project at succeeded where he had failed before. But…it was not to be. She chose John. He respected her choice, but it killed her. He killed her. It was for the better. He could have escaped, she could have escaped with him. But she chose not to. She chose to stay. She chose to die. Society didn't care. The masses didn't care about another corpse on the floor of the sickroom. He did. He missed her. It would have been nice to share the hatred with someone, someone to share a cell with for the rest of his days, if they didn't decide to kill him. Put him to death. They made it sound so humane. Quick. Painless.

The masses would scream for pain. They wanted to hear him scream as he had made countless others scream. Beautiful agony in their dying howls. He reveled in it. It meant rebirth, renewal, the end of self-inflicted horrors. It mean a clean up, it meant cutting pieces from skin. The trademark of infamy that doomed them all.  
Amanda was dead. John was dead. Gordon was…he didn't know. He was the last of a great legacy that had produced nothing except newspapers, books and TV reports that rattled on for what felt like days.

It didn't work and it did. His method worked…on those willing to give life another chance. He wished Amanda had lived to see the proof that everything she had worked for wasn't for nothing. It wasn't a fucking lie anymore.  
He smiled to himself as he was escorted into the courtroom building by his 'protectors', grazing his shoulder against rough limestone bricks.  
Through persecution, they would all be saved but for now?

_("Detective Hoffman, do you have anything to say for yourse—_"

"_Mr. Hoffman, what do you know about the death of John—_"_)_

"Game over," he murmured to himself, the sun casting its harsh white light on his eyes before it vanished as he entered the building.

_Shame…_

_It should have been raining.  
_


End file.
